


Measuring Up

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hands, Humor, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26931655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set sometime around the end of 5.0 MSQ, post-80 SMN quest. A Fordola and Arenvald short.“Mine,” Fordola kept insisting, “are clearly bigger.”
Relationships: Arenvald Lentinus & Fordola rem Lupis
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Measuring Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mythicbeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythicbeast/gifts).



> _Prompt from mythicbeast: ‘Fordola and Arenvald holding hands/comparing their hands‘_

"Mine," Fordola kept insisting, "are clearly bigger."  
  
Arenvald had been trying -- and failing -- for the past several minutes to consider how to even begin addressing this. No one else in the Resistance camp looked to be of any help. Everyone was settling down after a long day on the road, stretching and looking forward to the trip back to Little Ala Mhigo. Even their assigned thaumaturge was helping himself to a second bowl of stew. It was almost becoming a routine, nice and easy: either the Resistance or the grand companies would catch wind of a beast tribe getting close to summoning a Primal, and they'd send out a unit and take Arenvald and Fordola along for the raid. Afterwards, they cleared out every crystal they could find, searching through every tent and cavern until they were certain everything was dry, and then their task was done.   
  
At least, until the next time.  
  
It was -- Arenvald had to admit uncomfortably -- a lot like when the Garleans would go around to everyone's doors, street by street in their clomping boots, demanding most of your savings in taxation fees. Except the _Scions_ were the Garleans in this picture, and -- well. It was uncomfortable.  
  
Anyway, it wasn't a matter of opinion. His fingers were visibly broader than Fordola's, stubby and clumsy. He'd always joked about his own hands being more like bearpaws, only lacking the claws. They'd always been huge. When he'd been younger, he'd been afraid of them -- terrified that they were hinting at the Garlean height of his unknown father, that he'd grow into a giant to fit them and make his mother even more scared.  
  
Now, after the rest of him had thickened up to match, he was less concerned. By no stretch of the imagination could they be called slender, however. "They're _not_ ," he protested delicately, trying not to sound too stubborn about it just in case it was a hidden point of pride for Fordola. He couldn't even remember how they had _started_ down this fork in the conversation; all he had were regrets. "Remember that dagger that got dropped between two crates on the way over, and I couldn't fit my hand down the crack to fetch it? I wasn't fooling then, I swear."  
  
But she rolled her eyes, relieving him of a slowly-growing doubt in her powers of sight. "Bigger _stronger_ , you daft fool," she clarified. "Here, _look_."  
  
She held up her palm, and -- hesitantly, just in case she really did think her hands were somehow monstrous in scale -- Arenvald pressed his own to it in response. But she didn't react poorly even as his fingers stuck out over the tips of hers, the broad meat of his hand nearly obscuring the view completely. _Her_ hands weren't fragile either; they were calloused and coated with scar tissue and long-healed fractures, the legacy of someone who'd fought with any weapon that came to reach without the luxury of being picky about it.   
  
They were still smaller. Arenvald was on the short side for a Highlander, true -- Fordola was nearly as tall as he was -- but his bones were as thick as the rest of him, and he kept to his practice exercises just as diligently as any other soldier. His arm was dense with muscle; he had a gain on her there as well.  
  
Not by much, though. When Fordola shifted her fingers suddenly just enough to interlace them with his, tightening down with bruising force against the back of his hand, he could feel her grip threatening to snap something. He yelped before he could stop himself, his wrist bending backwards before he could brace his arm and push forward, already feeling the ache in his bones.   
  
She let go before he could figure out if he was supposed to grab her back somehow, like a test of strength where the only victor was the one with enough working fingers to use a spoon afterwards. "See?" she smirked, swaggering away a step as she shook out her hand. "I've got better control than you. You use a heavy straight blade, aye? You're strong, but a scimitar's all about the wrist -- not just _holding_ those pieces of metal and flailing them about to do your work for you. Gunblades give a kick that can cause a fracture if you don't hold them properly. You fight with those, you _learn_ how to keep your grip well-honed."  
  
"Now, come _on_ ," Arenvald protested, his pride ruckled up again; he'd heard the same sorts of bragging from other fighters being lofty about fancier choices than a gladiator's basics. There wasn't anything _wrong_ about a plain longsword; they were nice and sturdy and didn't have extra pieces that would snap off and stick you in the face in the middle of a melee. Before he could stop himself, he held up his hand once more, fingers spread. "Measure it again."  
  
Fordola's amusement only deepened. She refused to acknowledge his attempt to reclaim any dignity, only pulling her sleeve back from her right forearm. "See this?" she pointed out, angling her hand down so that he could see a neat spotting of scar tissue halfway up to her elbow. "Got that from fighting a wild jackal. You know the technique -- if a beastkin gets its jaws on you and you can't jam your arm crosswise fast enough, you grab their tongue so they don't bite your hand off." She made a clenching motion with her fingers, complete with a jerking twist. Then she lifted her gaze again in a smug challenge. "How many tongues have _you_ taken, Scion?"  
  
_Now_ it was getting worse. "Enough to prove myself," Arenvald protested, which meant _none_ , and also, she could _see_ if he was lying thanks to being Resonant. "I mean -- I don't tend to get the chance while fighting Primals! Most of them look like us. There's just..." He scoured his memory, running through all the descriptions he could recall from the Scions' records. "Ifrit, I suppose. Leviathan. I'd never... it'd be _rude_ trying to do that to Ramuh! Can you imagine? He's like an elder!"  
  
His helpless expression must have done something to appease Fordola's sense of competition, for the woman suddenly gave a scoffing chuckle, shaking her head. "And _that's_ why my hands are bigger," she explained, finally placing her palm against his once more. This time, when she folded her fingers down, she didn't try to break him -- only held him steady, like an iron brace that refused to let him either waver or crumble, in equal measure. " _I_ wouldn't hesitate."  
  
He gave his hand a tentative -- useless -- pull. "Not even if it was Ifrit's maw?"  
  
Fordola let go only when she was good and ready, waiting until he'd stopped trying to slide free before she deliberately opened her fingers. "If you want to see whose _tongue_ is stronger next, Scion," she retorted, arching an eyebrow even as she turned carelessly towards the campfire where the last of the stew was getting ladled out, "I promise you -- it's mine too."  
  



End file.
